


bespelled

by csi_sanders1129



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ficuary, First Kiss, Hale House, M/M, Magic, Memories, Ritual, Supernatural - Freeform, Witches, challenge, spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29366139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/csi_sanders1129/pseuds/csi_sanders1129
Summary: In which a witch interrupts Stiles midnight wanderings.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Kudos: 85
Collections: Ficuary





	bespelled

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ficuary 2021, Prompt: Ritual. Set pot S2-ish with a happy, functional pack and a renovated Hale House. Started writing this a long time ago (think back when S2 aired) and finished it for this challenge. Comments and kudos would be awesome. Enjoy!

Stiles wanders more or less aimlessly through the woods on a cold, winter night. He's in Derek's territory, so it's cool, really. The alpha wolf is more than accustomed to Stiles' midnight walks on nights when his insomnia acts up.

It's snowed recently, which is not entirely unusual for Northern California, but it had still sent the entire town into a chaotic panic. The snow had only amounted to little more than a dusting, barely enough to get school called off for the day, and the woods are eerily silent as a result of the fresh layer of white coating the dead leaves on the ground. The moon is almost full overhead, resulting in an equally eerie glow that plays havoc with the casted shadows that slowly shift over the white ground in the light breeze.

He's all alone out here. He knows that much. Barring any stealthy, creeper werewolves who might've tailed him.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, a 'where are you?' text from Derek that suggests that he isn't, in fact, out being all stalkery tonight. Stiles texts back a simple reply of 'woods' and keeps on walking.

'Get out of there,' comes Derek's reply after a few minutes. 'Meet at the house,' follows a second later.

Complying with Derek's bossy requests is not typically high on his to do-list, but there's a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that has him inexplicably willing to comply with this one.

He makes a turn toward the old Hale House, still a ways off, and wonders what has Derek so highly strung tonight that he doesn't even want Stiles walking in the woods and just how much research it is going to involve.

His question is answered for him when he spots a figure up ahead.

At first, he's not even sure it's human. It's all hunched over itself, barely three feet tall. The dark, graying, scraggly hair and the sickly pallor of the thing's sunken skin suggest it is something that might once have been, though.

Stiles knows he should turn around and leave, get to Hale House and let Derek deal with this ominous intruder, but he finds himself walking forward even though he doesn't want to. He can see long, sharp nails on skinny, bony hands that are beckoning him closer. Lifeless white eyes where there should be some color. Cracked teeth, tinted black and yellow with rot. Altogether it's certainly a gruesome picture, but he still can't walk away.

As he stumbles even closer to the dirty, unkempt figure, he starts to make out words, but they aren't words he recognizes. They barely sound like words at all, just sort of hoarse, grumbled noises that come out all throaty and rough. Some of them are hissed, as the blank white eyes bore into him. Others are whispered, barely audible, as the stranger gazes, unblinking, toward the sky.

One of the creepy hands reaches out and he doesn't quite know when he got close enough to touch, but the sharp nails brush lightly over his face, and now he finds that he can't even look away from the whited-out eyes, he doesn't even want to try.

"Stiles!" He hears, but it's muted and far away, like he's underwater.

Then there's a dark blur that seems to come from nowhere and move with supernatural speed, tackling the stranger to the ground, Stiles falls forward, too, with the sudden snap back to reality, and catches himself on the growling werewolf who'd jumped into the fray. A high-pitched shriek echoes through the empty woods, but it's silenced with a growl, and a decisive flash of sharp teeth. There's this weird blast of something after that, a breeze when there's no wind, that feels charged with electricity like the air before a storm.

"You okay?" Derek asks him, getting to his feet and pulling Stiles up with him as he shifts back.

Stiles isn't sure. He wipes snow off of his clothes, just for something to do with his hands to keep them from shaking. "I... I think so? What was that thing? What was it doing to me?"

"A witch, and it was baiting you."

"… Do I want to know what for?" Stiles asks, but he's pretty sure he doesn't.

And apparently Derek agrees, because he doesn't elaborate. "I could smell it in my territory," Derek continues to explain. "And I kind of figured you'd have picked tonight to go wandering."

"Witches are a thing now, really?" Stiles sighs in dismay because somehow he knows that there won't only be one. This is his life, after all, and nothing is ever easy in it, especially where werewolves and other such things are concerned. "As in wicked, green skinned, just add water?"

"Wicked, yes. Green skin is optional, I think. And water really just pisses them off."

"Fantastic," he groans. "Anything else you wanna tell me about now? Vampires? Mummies? Genies? Unicorns?"

Derek is, characteristically, silent. "Come on, back to the house."

"Can't I go home?"

"Stick around for tonight," he says, "The witch might not have been alone."

Stiles stares. "Can't you tell?"

A shrug, but Derek manages to herd him into moving in the general direction of the house. "They all smell the same, it's hard to tell if there's more than one."

"Huh, that's interesting."

"Frustrating, you mean," he counters.

"For you, yes, I'd think so."

Derek whacks him lightly on the back of the head and speeds up a bit, forcing Stiles to keep up with him. The house comes into view soon enough and Derek is clearly glad to find no trace of the witchy smell there. "Go on," he says, when Stiles stops beside him. "I'm gonna circle around, make sure there's nothing to worry about."

Stiles nods, and heads toward the porch. "You do that," he says, but Derek's already run off. He uses his key - everyone in the pack has one - on the solid front door and makes sure it's closed and locked behind him. He heads to the couch, in the recently renovated living room of the house, even though there are several pack rooms upstairs, to wait for Derek. Despite the fact that he's still considerably shaken by the near miss with the witch, the researcher in him has questions and he wants answers. He grabs a book, one of several he's collected and amassed into a serviceable library at Hale House, and settles in to wait.

All in all, though, Derek seems to be doing a thorough search of his territory and so Stiles is left alone long enough for the adrenaline rush from the witch encounter to wear off. It seems to have chased off his insomnia, too, because he falls asleep on the couch well before Derek returns.

When he wakes, it's to the glare of sunlight on his face and the feeling that he's being watched. He jolts upright, having slumped over in his sleep, and cringes at the crick in his neck. "...What?"

There's a laugh from the other side of the room, and he turns to find Derek hovering by the door. "Sleep well?"

"I should know not to fall asleep on this thing by now," he mumbles, stretching out. It's hardly the first time he's done so and it's not like it's getting more comfortable. "How was the witch hunt?"

"Nothing," Derek says. "Guess it was just a loner. Come on," he nods toward the door, "I'll take you home."

Stiles slides off the couch and follows after him, glad that he'll have enough time to shower and change before he has to be at school. "Thanks," he says.

So, there's a quick run back to his house, wherein Stiles rushes through his typical morning routines, and then Derek is even nice enough to drive him to school, since the Jeep is still parked at one of the preserve lots. He promises to drive Stiles out to it later, when he meets with the pack to discuss the witch threat.

And things go smoothly for most of the day (aside from Scott's complaints about his and Allison's most recent argument, Jackson's general bitchiness about their recent lacrosse loss, and the never-ending grudge Mr. Harris holds against him). Until English class.

He's read the book, _Le Morte D'Arthur_ , before, when he went through a crazy intense Arthurian Legend phase just before all the werewolf nonsense took over his life. So, his mind, as usual, wanders. It wanders back to the witch and the woods, over all of the creepy details and the few things he managed to weasel out of Derek on the subject on the drive to school. It wasn't much, but he thinks he has a few sources in mind for research purposes, should the need (or his curiosity) arise in the future. He's already ordered a copy of the _Malleus Maleficarum_ from Amazon, a book he'd never thought he'd need (but then he'd never thought he'd _need_ any of the occult books that are currently amassed in his ever growing collection, so...).

The teacher is discussing something about Lancelot and Guinevere when things start to get weird.

All of a sudden, a tree starts to grow out of the tile floor, splintering the hard concrete with ease. No one else seems to be disturbed by this, no one else even seem to notice that it's happening. Which is odd, because it is literally happening right in front of the teacher. It grows and grows and grows until it hits the ceiling, knocking away the tiles and sending little bits of fiberglass snowing down to the floor. Another tree pops up to his right, blocking the doorway, and grows even thicker than the first had. Another in the back of the room. Then off to his left, between two desks. "Uh..." he starts, but then he's hit with this overpowering smell. It's sickly sweet mixed with the unmistakable odor of something rotting away. He coughs around the stench and covers his mouth and nose, hoping to block out the disturbing smell. No one else seems bothered.

"Mr. Stilinski," the teacher calls, but her voice sounds distorted and far away and he can't make out whatever else she says after that.

More trees pop up, and the tiles below his feet turn to dirt and dead leaves and a layer of snow that muffles the usual woodsy sounds. The desks (and the students in them) vanish and he's left alone in the forest, dark as night.

He knows this place, though. Knows the Beacon Hills Preserve well enough to recognize it by now. He's in Derek's territory, he's sure, though he's not sure about much else.

The sound of a beating heart, pounding alarmingly fast, fills his ears at an overwhelming volume. Whoever that is must be terrified, running for their lives or something. Suddenly, he's moving through the forest, even though his feet aren't going anywhere. Trees rush by him, too quickly, and the sight he can start to make out up ahead is eerily familiar.

The witch, with its dead eyes and long nails, is there. And he can see himself standing just in front of it, moving closer with the pull of its mystical hold over him. He hears his name, clear this time where before it had been distant and muddled, he's sure, and just as he slams into the creature - drowning in the terrible scent of it and lost in the rapid fire echoing of a thrumming heart that he realizes is his own - he snaps back to reality.

Everyone is staring at him.

He's breathing heavy, like he just ran a marathon (or one of Derek's training routines), and he's covered in a cold sweat. "Uh," he stammers, having no idea what to say. "I, uh, can I be excused?"

The teacher nods a slow, apprehensive nod - probably thinks he's insane - and Stiles wastes no time in escaping the awkward silence of the classroom. He rushes out of a door that is not, in fact, blocked by a tree, and out into the hallway.

"What the hell was that?" He wonders to himself, as he makes for the bathroom to splash some water on his face. His mind still reeling, he pulls out his phone and calls the one person who might have an explanation, even if Stiles is sure he'll have to pry it out of him. "Hey, so, uh. That witch. What was she doing to me exactly? Cause I just had a very vivid hallucination in English class. Just… so you know?" He rambles, when Derek picks up the phone.

A pause and then, "A hallucination of what, exactly?"

"I think I saw what happened last night, but from your point of view?"

Surprisingly, Derek is forthcoming with an explanation and doesn't actually make Stiles play twenty questions to badger it out of him. "She wanted to feed on your memories – it's… not pretty. I interrupted it. Whatever ritual she was working backfired onto us. You'll see my memories. I'll probably see yours. It should wear off in a day or two."

"You're taking this surprisingly well," Stiles observes. He'd half-expected Derek to be furious and threatening about shared memories.

"The witch could have been doing way worse," Derek answers, which is only slightly terrifying to think about. What else could she have done to him? What other ritual could it have been? "Besides, if someone has to be stuck in my head, I'd rather it be you than some of the others." Stiles gets that – Scott or Erica or Allison would likely be a little more judgey about whatever they happened to see. Isaac and Boyd would probably be chill. Lydia and Jackson would be wildcards with that kind of information. The pack doesn't need that kind of imbalance now when they're all finally getting along.

"Same to you," he decides. Scott's his best friend, but there are still things he doesn't know, doesn't need to know, and he trusts that those secrets would be safe with Derek.

"I can come pick you up, if you want," Derek offers, before Stiles can ask that of him, "Chances are today won't be fun for either of us – we're both a bit short on happy memories." When Stiles agrees – thinking of the many forms those memories could possibly take - he promises to be there in ten minutes.

It takes a solid twenty-five, though, because Derek got hit hard on the way over with a memory of Stiles' time spent in the Argent's basement after the lacrosse game a few months back. He'd had to pull over and wait out the anger it left him with, seeing Stiles and Erica and Boyd at Gerard's mercy.

They make it back to Hale House without any further issue, though, and the two of them settle in the living room, prepared to ride this out until the witch's magic wears off, whatever it might entail.

For now, though, it entails research. Stiles sets to work with one of the books he hadn't gotten to last night while Derek lurks about, moving in and out of the house periodically to be sure his territory is still witch-free. The others will be by after school lets out, he knows, and Derek said this shouldn't last too long. It should be fine.

And it is, for a while. No more of Derek's memories come to him. Maybe it's wearing off already. Maybe the magic hadn't been that strong. Maybe he doesn't need to worry about the memories he could accidentally send to Derek. He's most worried about the memories of his mother's death, because Derek doesn't need any more of that. He's had to deal with more than enough of it already.

But, a few minutes later, Derek appears. Stiles knows without asking he got another memory forced upon him – judging by the look on Derek's face, he can even guess what it was. "Hospital?" He asks, just to be sure. Derek nods. So much for sparing him from that. Stiles gets it now, though. The memories don't come at random. "We get the memories we think about," he explains.

"Okay, then," Derek declares, no doubt fighting to keep his own nightmares from Stiles. "Neither of us is allowed to think of any of the shitty things that have happened to us."

But that's easier said than done. "See, the thing is, you've set up a 'don't think about polar bears' scenario here," Stiles argues, which is fine, because if he's arguing he's not thinking about bad memories, at least. "You tell me not to think of a thing and I'm gonna think of not thinking of the thing I'm trying not to think about and… you can see where this might be problematic." He remembers reading about it once, in a psychology textbook he'd skimmed through for fun. Ironic Process Theory, he thinks it was called. "You're thinking about polar bears, aren't you?"

Derek sighs, exasperated. "Let's… I don't know, play a game."

" _You're_ suggesting a game?"

"I could just punch you, you know," Derek warns, and Stiles has no doubt in his mind that he could, and would, do so. "And you could just wait out the rest of this unconscious."

"That's an option, yes, but let's not do that. I've already met my quota for concussions this year, thank you very much. What game?"

Derek shrugs, "I don't know, anything – just something to keep our minds off… polar bears."

Hale House is distinctly lacking in board games despite his numerous attempts to institute pack game nights. They have a decent video game set-up, and he would love to wipe the floor with Derek at Mario Kart, but another idea comes to mind. They essentially have a superpower right now – why not use it?

"Think of what you had for dinner yesterday," Stiles prompts, testing out his idea with something harmless to see if it even works.

"Why?"

Stiles rolls his eyes, "Just humor me."

"I don't know – leftover pizza?"

"No," Stiles says, "Don't tell me. Show me."

Derek looks like he wants to argue, but does as asked. A fuzzy but very mundane memory of heating up a slice of pizza comes to Stiles mind. He can almost smell it.

"Okay, this is cool. Your turn."

Begrudgingly, Derek plays along. "What'd you learn in class today?"

Stiles is not impressed. "Aside from the fact that I've been bespelled by a witch…" he concentrates on the chemistry lesson Mr. Harris had given on solubility.

"Looks just as boring as I remember," Derek decides, the hint of a smile on his face. "Alright, keep going."

They go back and forth for some time, carefully tiptoeing around any subjects that could lead to the dreaded polar bears they're hoping to avoid. Still, it's an enlightening experience. Derek throws out a few happier memories of his childhood, his family – the time he pranked his sisters, the first time he got to run with a pack, a Christmas morning in this very room. Stiles offers up some equally guarded memories of the time before his mom got sick. They both share their favorite pack memories, which turn out to be quite similar, actually – Stiles recalls the night the whole pack had settled here in Hale House for a movie night, all of them comfortably sprawled about the room, all happy and safe and content; Derek opts for the time he'd taken the wolves all running, but it was the part when they all got back to the house, where the not-wolves were waiting for them that he'd liked the best. Favorite foods, favorite movies, favorite books.

"First kiss," Derek challenges, when his turn rolls around again.

Stiles frowns, sends Derek a big, empty nothing in response.

"Really?"

"Yeah, yeah," he says, "What about you?"

"Polar bear," Derek deflects. "But, seriously, no one?"

"Thanks, rub it in," Stiles grumbles. "So, unless you're offering, pick another question."

In response, Stiles gets what is less a memory and more an idea that suggests Derek is, in fact, offering. For a second, Stiles considers telling him that he doesn't need a pity first kiss, but something about the not-memory suggests it doesn't have much to do with pity at all. He's not entirely sure what his frazzled mind might've sent back in response to the stunning idea that Derek actually _likes_ him, but whatever it is makes Derek laugh and move in a little closer. It's certainly not like Stiles hasn't thought about it, Derek is Derek after all and Stiles is not blind.

Still, Stiles opts to clarify. " _Me_? Seriously?"

"Just come here already," Derek says, grabbing a fistful of Stiles' shirt in his hand and hauling him in even closer, but not quite kissing just yet. "Can I kiss you?"

"Uh. Yes," Stiles fumbles to find the simple word, "Very yes. Of course, yes," he rambles on. "Like you even have to-"

Finally, Derek cuts him off, pressing their lips together in a fierce kiss that Stiles just sort of melts into. Without ever really deciding to move, he finds himself shifting into Derek's lap, as well-muscled arms circle around him and keep him there. It is a fantastic first kiss. The subsequent kisses aren't bad, either, and the game is nearly forgotten after that.

It's only when the rest of the pack starts to arrive that they realize just how long they've been at it. They're alerted by the sound of car doors closing and idle chatter as the others arrive in response to the message Derek sent them all this morning.

Stiles scrambles off of Derek – for all the good that will do with several werewolves with heightened senses about to walk in the door – and tries to look as nonchalant as possible on the other side of the couch.

"Hey, there you are," Scott greets him, "Danny said you freaked out in English and bailed."

"Uh, yeah," Stiles starts, "Turns out witches are a thing now – I ran into one last night and the lingering side effects are a bit trippy."

Scott drops his backpack and sighs, "Witches? Really?"

Derek cuts in, "It's already taken care of. But stay alert if you're out there. Trust me, you'll know a witch when you smell it and if the one we found last night had any friends, they'll be around soon enough." As the others start to file in, Derek gives them a limited rundown of relevant witch lore – things to look out for, things to avoid, signs they might be in the area – while he and Stiles both very pointedly ignore all the curious looks the others are shooting their way, especially once Derek slings an arm over the back of the couch, settles it on Stiles' shoulder.

By the time Scott suggests ordering food and having a night in (with periodic patrols of the territory lines just to be sure they are still free of witches), it's clear that most everyone has figured them out, whether or not they are werewolves.

"I think Derek and Stiles might want some time alone," Lydia says, and then, with a wry grin, she adds, "It's about time, you two."

"Seriously," Boyd agrees.

"Huh?" Scott wonders, clueless, as usual. Stiles watches his eyes dart from the others to he and Derek and slowly the pieces fall into place. "Oh. _Oh_. Do you want us to go, then?"

Derek and Stiles trade looks, and Stiles finds himself flushing pink with some of the _ideas_ Derek sends his way through the witch's magic. They promise some very interesting things should the pack leave them be.

Jackson gets to his feet, pulls Lydia up with him, "I'm gonna bet that's a yes," he says. Then, to Derek, he adds, "We'll do a run to check things out and then head out. Scott, your place?"

"Works for me," Scott agrees, and the others chorus their agreement with this plan and promptly take their leave, leaving Stiles and Derek alone again.

Stiles take the opportunity to send back some ideas of his own and it doesn't take Derek very long to act on them. He wonders how long these superpowers will last, he thinks, he rather likes them.


End file.
